Incensed at her flight, her poor Hubby in dudgeon
Roam'd after his rib in a gig and a pout,
Till, tired with his journey, the peevish curmudgeon
Sat down and blubber'd just like a church-spout.
One day, on a bench as dejected and sad he laid,
Hearing a squash, he cried, Damn it, what's that?
'Twas a child of the count's, in whose service lived Adelaide,
Soused in the river, and squall'd like a cat.
Having drawn his young excellence up to the bank, it
Appear'd that himself was all dripping, I swear;